


Eye of the Beast

by Sagg_k_c



Category: Psychotic - Fandom, The End - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 02:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12878028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sagg_k_c/pseuds/Sagg_k_c
Summary: A world is falling. Darkness is spreading. A Man, ludicrous with thinking he is the son of Lucifer, is set to finish his task. A school shooting, suicide, lust. This is the end of time.





	Eye of the Beast

Go to sleep and close your eyes, Jennifer jotted down shaky handed, tears streaming down her face. And dream of broken butterflies. She wasn’t sure where the idea came from—a book she read? a poem she read? just her feelings, deep down where she hated to venture?—but she knew it had a strong meaning. That tore their wings against a thorn. You know the pain that they have borne. She looked at her sleeve, rolled it up gently, and stared in hate and spite at the disgusting scars lining herself, then returned to the dampened paper to start the second stanza. Silver metal shine so bright. Scarlet blood that feels so bright. She picked the razor, hidden in bell of the night lamp and stained red, broken off her father’s cheap shaving razor, and twirled it between her fingers, remembering the feeling of it gliding across her skin whispering “But I love you,” in that cruel, false reassurance. Dream of blood trickling down. And wake up just before you drown. And she remembered the long nights she had laid in bed staring at the ceiling, numb, bleeding out, with the moon peering in. The moonlight’s shining off your tears. As you bleed out your own worst fear. Her mother had asked her the next morning why her sheets were red, and she answered simply “just Kool-Aid.” So tonight when you start to cry. She said the last line aloud, quietly. “Whisper the cutters’ lullaby.” 

           She sat back in her chair, scarred knees pressed against her sore chest, eyes burning, and began singing to herself a tune she did not recognize, but somehow knew all her life, with lyrics dark as night, deep as the sea, and powerful as God. “Hushabye baby, you’re almost dead. You don’t have a pulse and your pillow is red.” The sleepless nights came back to her again, worse than before, and her arms began to tremble. “Your family hates you, your friends let you bleed.” Some friends she had anyways. She didn’t need any friends. “Sleep tight with a knife, cause it’s all that you need.” The words rolled off her lips like the bomb on Hiroshima. And finally, the ending came to her. “Rockabye baby, broken and scarred. You didn’t know that life would be this hard. Time to end the pain that you hid so well. And down will come baby, straight back to hell.” 

The next morning, Jennifer awoke in her bathtub, her eyes swollen and her wrist stained red, as was the tub wall and floor. As she heard her mother’s footsteps, she quickly stood up—and almost fell back down—wet a washcloth, and scrubbed the blood away.  

           “Jennifer,” her mother cooed menacingly. “Is that you? Are you alright?” 

           “Yes mother,” replied she in a low, raspy tone. “I had to use the bathroom. I’m sorry if I woke you.” 

           “It’s six-fifteen. Breakfast will be ready in five.” 

           “I’m not eating today. I-I have to get to school early today. For a project.” 

           “Ok. I’m not driving you if your bus doesn’t run this early.” 

           “I’ll walk.” 

           “Yeah, you need the exercise.” She chuckled to herself wittingly and strode to the kitchen, newly refurbished, and cracked two eggs on a skillet. Jennifer, after finishing wiping the stains, scrubbed the blood off her arms with a bar of Dove soap. The water quickly turned scarlet, adding a horrible beauty to the perfection of the clear liquid, and swirled with tranquility into the drain. Her fingernails were another subject. Blood was caked into them and, knowing she wouldn’t get it out in time, went to brushing her hair, beautiful brunette bundles hanging down past her shoulders and hovering just above her mid-back. She stared, hateful and abhorred, at her reflection with cruel red pimples surrounding her face like the Ring of Fire on the Pacific plate and the un-plucked eyebrows she tried desperately to maintain, but she knew not a soul cared and she wouldn’t be complimented either way. Grabbing the nearest brush and palate, Jennifer quickly applied a layer of makeup to cover up her face. The result diminished her acne, but added a fake layer, which she was fine with. Her hand then reached for the toothbrush and paste and ridded the stench in her mouth.  

The bathroom door always creaked, and this time was no different, except it appeared louder. She quickly flew down the corridor, lined with pictures of her mother, none of herself, and plastered in blue and white wallpaper—the white forming a criss-cross pattern over the blue base—and slammed through her door. Her bedroom was a small cube with only her saddened bed, worn desk, and hollow wardrobe. It didn’t take long to pick out an outfit, blue jeans and a skull crop top with a thin, purple sweater covering her shoulders and arms, and she strapped her bag around her shoulders and left the house without saying goodbye, something she knew would get her yelled at tonight, but what did she have to lose? She had no social life, so what would grounding? A spank doesn’t compare to the things she does to her body herself. There was nothing her mother could do to hurt her. Not anymore. She was numb. Numb from everyone and everything. That was what scared her the most. 

The walk to school was about thirty minutes through desolated alleys and dampened streets and the people were never to be seen, except the drug addicts and the ones sneaking out of apartments after a night of drinking. And the school wasn’t much better. It was an old red-brick building with a chain link fence halfway falling over. The windows were mostly boarded and the courtyard was deteriorated and slick. The hallways always smelled like vomit and B.O., since it was shared with middle school, and the lockers were rusted and squeaky.  

Jennifer made her way down the hall being followed with glares and looks of disgust. She looked straight ahead the entire time, not even phased. Her fifth grade teacher, Ms. O'Daniel, was the only one that cared, which she thought only had to do with her job, and she shut her out. Her classroom, in Jennifer's opinion, was the decorated the nicest, with posters of galaxies and student projects and she always kept it tidy and fresh. 

She sat in the front of the fourth row, closest to the window, which overlooked the basketball court. The blackboard was covered with old math equations and spelling words as well as the bell ringer at the top, which said "Write the multiples of 12, 14, and 42." She got right to work, and let the school overtake her mind and push everything else away. Away until 11:30, when the lunch bell rang. 

Lunch was chili and crackers, the usual, and even though she was starving, she didn’t get in line. Instead, she sat down alone at the only deserted table, again, and read her favorite book, Carrie. But that was when it went to hell. Not the usual crying alone in the bathroom hell, but a new hell.  

The cafeteria doors suddenly burst open. The loud chatter quickly died and alarmed faces rose from the tables. A man with loose dusty hair and a tight face stood at the door with a gun. He aimed it to the ceiling and fired twice. 


End file.
